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Will Graham’s body is a map of scars.
There’s a thick, jagged scrape of scar tissue over his wrist where his ulna protrudes, from where he’d accidentally moved too closely to a boat motor he’d been helping his father repair as a child.
There’s a sizable notch of skin missing from the back of his skull, a perfect indent from falling out of a tree when he was nine or ten. He doesn’t recall much of that particular incident, but he remembers the sting of antiseptic and his father’s big hand on his arm at the hospital while they glued the gash shut.
There’s a dozen or more tiny scars that litter his hands and arms from years of manual labor and getting too close to skittish strays. They’re almost invisible unless you’re looking for them; the light reflecting off of the damaged tissue like sunlight against the water.
Most of them are just vague childhood memories, remembered only by the physical evidence left behind. His body remembering even after his memory fades. The ones that mean something, the ones that are more than scuffs and accidents, those are fresher, impossible to forget or hide.
Raised pink scar tissue where his body knit itself back together. He would remember those memories even if his skin didn’t.
There’s a thick band of scarring that stretches across his belly, almost hip to hip, just above his navel. Like a jagged smile. Sometimes late at night, staring up at the ceiling, he’ll run his fingers along it, feeling its shape. Thinking of what could have been.
There’s a poorly healed gunshot wound in his arm as a gift from Jack.
Another gunshot wound in his arm from Chiyoh, a grazing more than anything.
There are twin scars in his shoulder and across his cheek from The Great Red Dragon. His shoulder aches at the memory and the skin on his face pulls unpleasantly on occasion.
There’s a scar, straight and precise, that drags along his temple. The area around it is numb, and if he presses along the scarring it sends little fissures of static through his skin.
Each scar has a little memory attached to it, forged in bloodshed and betrayal, and a never ending sea of what-ifs. The newest scars don’t carry that same weight. Even when the person who placed them there is the same person who gave Will so many of his other scars. These ones were placed purposefully and with care. Neat, clean suturing, gentle care while the incisions heal.
It feels fitting to have Hannibal be the one to do it. It feels like an apology for all of the other scars, like a kiss over a scraped knee.
It doesn’t undo any of the other scars, it doesn’t make them fade faster, or make them less visible, but it does give Will a sense of reverence. There’s a pride in wearing each one of the marks that Hannibal placed on his skin. Especially now; his fingers tracing the mostly healed skin, pink and fresh, and tender.
“They’re healing well,” Hannibal says, redressing the wound.
Will hums in acknowledgment, unable to tear his gaze away from his reflection in the full length mirror across the room.
“How does it feel?”
It hurts. It aches, and lifting his arms above his head feels like a chore. His ribs feel bruised, and he feels every inhale and exhale pull at still healing wounds. It’s heaven.
“Good,” Will says, earnest. “Really good.”
Hannibal nods, gently batting Will’s fingers away from the other side of his chest where his fingers had been dancing over the surgery scars there.
“Wonderful,” Hannibal says. “Soon you should be able to keep the dressings off.”
Will glances at Hannibal, finally tearing his gaze away from his reflection. It’s a little intoxicating, imagining being able to look at his chest without all of the drains, and bruising, and bandages. No binder. Just flat, soft skin, interrupted only by another set of scars at Hannibal’s steady hand.
“You look lovely, sweet boy,” Hannibal tacks on after a beat, carefully securing gauze back over the top surgery scar.
Will bites back the urge to respond with a deflection, a snide remark, a joke. Instead, he takes a deep breath and nods slowly. “Thank you.” Will says.
A single thank-you for every scar Hannibal’s ever given him that’s lead to this moment.
A thank you for seeing him, and knowing him, and loving him.